Like I said, it doesn’t pay to overeat at breakfast. Not on Mondays. Especially not that first Monday.
I could hear the disgust in Matthew’s voice, as he looked toward the camera. “We’re done, Professor.”
Fuck being done too.
It was anger that got me back to my feet. Anger that drowned out the sharp pain in my side, and the harsh, strangled wheezing of my suddenly inadequate breath. Anger at the Academy, at this class, at Bard and his sanctimonious fucking speeches, at Matthew-fucking-Strich and his vid-star looks, at the fact that these sweats were practically the only clothes I fucking owned, and one set was now ruined for fucking forever.
“We are not fucking done,” I growled.
Paladin’s eyes widened, for just a moment, and then he came back in.
Anger got me through the first hit and the second.
Anger got me back off the floor the fourth time, the fifth time, even the sixth time, by which point Paladin’s fists were dripping with my blood.
Anger got me a strike that almost landed, my extended fingers grazing his throat even as he hammered yet another fist into my stomach, sending me to the floor for the seventh fucking time in I didn’t know how many fucking minutes.
That was when anger fled, taking with it the pain that it had almost hidden, leaving nothing behind but emptiness, cold and silent. I could feel the walls of the pit closing in on me, feel consciousness packing its bags as it prepared to follow anger right the fuck out that door in my mind. Try as I might, I couldn’t find the words or the thoughts or the emotions to summon it back.
Nor could I find the energy to be surprised when my body gathered beneath me all on its own, and I stood back up for round eight.
CHAPTER 20
Regaining consciousness always sucks. First, there’s the sense of confusion—where am I, what am I doing here, and on particularly fucked-up occasions, who am I? As the answers are just starting to make their way to the front of your brain, the questions cease to matter, wiped away by the world making itself known again through that sensation called pain.
This time was no different. My head was killing me, and every part of my body was rioting right along with it. Less pain than I’d have expected, less pain than I remembered from before I went out, but it sure didn’t feel good. I cracked one eye open and immediately wished I hadn’t. Regaining consciousness is bad enough, but waking up to find a ginger in your face? That’s a whole new species of suck, even before you add in that this particular ginger was singing under his breath. Voice like his would have put Alicia’s panties right back on, if you know what I’m saying.
If she hadn’t already been dead, of course.
Fucking Scarlet.
Fucking parents who took Alicia out of Bakersfield.
Anyway, the ginger. I don’t know what people thought of gingers before the Break. One theory holds that gingers didn’t even exist pre-Break, that they’re something Dr. Nowhere was in the midst of dreaming into existence when he woke up, leaving his last creation badly incomplete. And soulless. Totally soulless. I didn’t buy that theory—and not just because I’d seen pre-Break comic books starring a Cape named Archie who was ginger as could be—but I didn’t totally discount it either. Fuck knows pale skin, freckles, and carrot-colored hair are a combination too horrible to achieve on accident.
This particular ginger had eyes the color of a cloudless summer sky—the sort of sky too rarely seen in Bakersfield—set in a baby face above the aforementioned spattering of freckles. Those eyes widened as they met mine, and his song cut off in mid lyric.
“Shit!!”
I cocked an eyebrow, relieved to find that at least that didn’t hurt. “Shit?”
“You’re not supposed to be awake until I’m done.”
“Done with what? Stealing my organs? Measuring my dick? Murdering that song?”
He went beet red. Not sure if it was my justified criticism of his singing or the comment about my dick, which was, given the cold steel beneath my all-too-bare ass, very much hanging out for the world to admire and possibly measure.
“Healing you,” he finally managed. “We’re supposed to keep patients asleep until everything’s done, but that bit’s way harder than the actual healing.”
“Oh.” I let my eyes flutter closed, as my brain finally woke up enough for me to place his face. Last I’d seen him, Ishmae had been choking him unconscious. “You’re the first-year Healer. Shane something or other?”
“Shane Stevenson. Call me Balm.”
I cracked one eye back open. “What the fuck sort of Healer name is Bomb?”
“Not Bomb… Balm. There’s an l in there, and no b. Well, one b, I guess. It’s a type of ointment that soothes pain.”
I’d found a codename that made Baron Boner seem cool.
“So how come you’re working on me instead of one of the professionals?”
“One second, please.” Shane placed the palm of his right hand flat against my bare chest and concentrated. Moments later, warm spread outward from that point of contact, muffling the pain, if not killing it entirely. “This is part of my training,” he said. “After Ishmae choked me out, they brought me back to help. Besides…” He flushed again.
“Besides?”
“I’m a High-Three,” he shrugged self-consciously, “and they’re Twos. I don’t have their training yet, but in terms of raw power, I’m the only game in town. Given your condition when they carted you in, they decided to err on the side of caution.” He paused again. “I’ve never gotten to fix internal bleeding before, let alone a collapsed lung. Your heart even stopped! Would it be weird if I said thank you?”
“It’s weird that you even have to ask,” I decided, taking my first big breath since waking up. Everything still hurt, but that sharp piercing I’d felt in my side was gone, as was the whistling that had accompanied my last gasps in the pit. “How long was I out?”
“More than an hour.”
“Shit! I have class…”
“Me too,” said Shane, “but it started like forty minutes ago and Ms. Stein already knows we won’t make it to Control. Last year, only half the first-years were well enough to attend on the first day, so I guess three of us skipping is an improvement.”
I was pretty sure the little guy and his powers were part of the reason for that. A High-Three Healer and a ginger? Unicorn didn’t even begin to cover it.
“Wait… three of us?” After waking up to find Shane in my face, I’d very carefully not paid further attention to my surroundings. Or the fact that I was still fucking naked. Now, with every muscle complaining, I rolled to one side and took a careful look around.
I’d gone to the clinic when I first arrived at the Academy, but this wasn’t it. The clinic had inspirational posters, comfortable couches and magazines, not to mention individual examination rooms. This room, which I would later learn was the on-campus medical ward—because what school is complete without its own surgical center?—was all off-white paint and sterile steel accessories. Long shelves spotted the wall to my left, near a row of oversized sinks with detachable shower heads. To my right were four gurneys just like the one I was lying on. Two were empty, one was partially occupied by the still-smiling figure of Mom’s ghost, but the last held an actual patient; the mountainous, silent mass of my roommate, Jeremiah Jones.
“What happened to him?”
“Alan Jackson happened.” Shane shivered, then visibly brightened. “Broken right clavicle, and a spiral fracture to the left ulna. Pretty straightforward to heal, it turns out, but still… kind of cool.”
I flopped back down, clenching my teeth to keep the groan from slipping out. I’d been in my share of fights—and lost plenty of them, especially before puberty hit—but my match with Paladin was the first time in years I’d felt truly outclassed. It wasn’t a feeling I cared for. “So we’re all losers then? Might be the first thing my roommate and I have in common.”
“What?” Balm’s eyes widened again, and he s
hook his head, carrot hair flying about. “You didn’t lose.”
“You just spent an hour putting me back together. Of course I lost.”
“You don’t remember? Really?” He moved up and placed his palm on my forehead, concentrating. After a moment, he frowned. “No sign of brain damage that would suggest memory loss. Weird.”
Healer or not, ginger or not, I was a breath away from kicking Shane’s ass if he didn’t tell me what he was talking about.
“I was down here working, but I watched the whole thing on vid,” he explained. “You wouldn’t stop. Sixteen fractures, a punctured lung, at least two heart attacks… and you just kept going.”
“I thought you said my lung was collapsed.”
“It’s the same thing, medically speaking,” he said absently. “Broken rib punctured the lung, the lung collapsed. Anyway, if Matthew hadn’t surrendered—”
“He what?!?”
“Surrendered, ending the match. If he hadn’t—” Shane’s clear sky eyes were solemn. “—I think you might have died. Even with my help.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah. The other Healers couldn’t believe Professor Tsarnaev let things go that far.”
My heartfelt expletive didn’t have anything to do with almost dying. Maybe it’s because I’d watched Her Majesty shred a Pyro just a few days earlier, or because Balm had already healed most of my injuries before I woke up, but I wasn’t all that bothered by my latest near-death experience. I mean, it sucked, and would have sucked more if I’d actually kicked off, but I hadn’t, so… whatever, right?
Of far greater concern was the revelation that my ex-roommate—who had quickly and effortlessly assumed the role of arch-nemesis—had just saved my life.
What the fuck was I supposed to say to that?
•—•—•
The Academy Healers may have trusted Balm—still the dumbest codename I’d ever heard—to patch me up, but that trust had its limits. I had to wait another twenty minutes for one of the pros to come and double-check the little ginger’s work. Finally, after a lot of poking and prodding, mixed in with muttered comments about both the number of ribs I had showing and the boniness of my exposed ass, the older woman nodded in satisfaction.
I waited another half-minute, as the two of them reviewed what Balm had done, how, and why, before finally interrupting, waving one hand at my still-naked body. “Can I get my clothes back or should I just head outside like this? Not entirely sure how the Academy feels about dicks swinging in the breeze.”
Shane went beet red again, but his counterpart, the same woman who had treated me on my arrival to the Academy, was made of sterner stuff. “I suppose that depends on the dick in question. As for your clothing, we had to cut it off of you … not that what remained would’ve been salvageable if we hadn’t.”
“So what am I supposed—?”
“Shockingly, you’re not the first person to end up naked in the med ward. Usually, there’s alcohol involved though.” She nodded to the far wall. “Grab a set of fresh sweats from the third shelf before you blind us all.”
I’m pretty sure that was a comment on my pallor and not the brilliant, awe-inspiring sight of my all-too-visible appendage. I swung my legs over the far side of the table, and scurried to the shelf in question. The sweats came in five sizes; small, medium, large, extra-large, and what-the-fuck-are-they-feeding-you. I grabbed a large and pulled on both the pants and long-sleeved top. Then, over one shoulder. “Do I need to bring these back when I’m done with them?”
“Do we look like a laundry service?” Despite the words, her voice was almost kind. Maybe naked Crow affected her more than she was letting on. If she hadn’t been pushing sixty… nah, it had been a long time since Alicia, but there were still limits. “Keep them as a replacement.”
I nodded in thanks, waited for her and Balm to head over to the still-unconscious Jeremiah… and then stole another set of sweats.
A few more near-death experiences and I might end up with a full week’s worth of clothes.
CHAPTER 21
After all that time entombed in Nikolai’s bunker of pain, the sun was painfully bright, hanging like an angry god in the crystal blue sky. The med ward was a few buildings from the arena, connected by little more than an underground hallway, and it took me a few moments to get my bearings. Once I did, I headed over to where Gabriella Stein taught Control. Limped over, if we’re being truthful. The faculty felt we’d learn better if the Healers only mostly healed us, so even though nothing was broken, punctured, or collapsed anymore, I had bruises fucking everywhere.
I wasn’t trying to make it to class, and not just because it was almost over. If nearly dying meant I got to skip school for a bit, I was good with that, even with Gabriella Stein being the embodiment of every teacher fantasy I’d never thought to have. Control was the one powers class we had five days a week, so there’d be plenty of opportunity for me to sweet talk my way into Ms. Stein’s heart. Like Tuesday, for example.
So no; I didn’t go because I wanted to attend class. I went because all of the other first-years would be there. More importantly, Matthew would be there.
Obligations are a bitch, but you can’t just dream that shit away.
Most of the campus buildings held classes for both Powers and regular students. Nikolai’s bunker was one exception. Ms. Stein’s sunlit studio was another. The fewer people around the better when you’re trying to teach first-years how not to crack the world in half. When the bell rang, and students poured out of every other classroom, the Control building stayed quiet at first. Simple law of numbers; five hundred shits in a building means some of them are pretty damn close to the door, and some of them are pretty damn anxious to get out. A mere twenty-one shits, half of whom were probably lusting after Ms. Stein as much as me? It took my fellow first-years a solid minute or two to emerge.
The first was Olympia—because of course it was—walking arm-in-arm with a raven-haired smoke show whose curves would put vid stars to shame. I’d noticed the brunette in Nikolai’s class, of course—pretty sure her name was London—but she’d been part of the second pairings, and I hadn’t paid any attention to her fight.
I was beating myself up over that little fact just then. She wore the same grey sweats as the rest of us, but like Olympia, she actually made them look good.
Both women saw me at the same time. Both stopped. Olympia’s light went out, again, and London’s pale skin went even paler.
“Ladies.” I nodded.
Neither said a word, spines suddenly stiff like someone had insulted their mothers. Instead, they gave me a wide berth, eyes never leaving me, but never quite meeting mine. It wasn’t until they were past me, merging back into the sea of humanity, that they began to speak again.
To each other, of course. Not me.
Made me miss Alicia, to be honest. Sappy shit, for sure, but also true. Girl never cared that I was a Crow. Girl never cared that I was an orphan either.
Girl’s dead and buried, I reminded myself for the second time in less than an hour.
After London and Olympia came the rest of the first-years. The faces and names changed, but the reactions stayed the same. Apparently, getting the shit kicked out of me by Paladin hadn’t convinced anyone I was harmless.
Weird thing was, I could swear some of them were more scared of me than they had been. What was that about?
Only four exceptions to that; Orca, Alan Jackson, the Viking, and Silt. First two paid no attention to me at all, each walking by themselves, each wrapped up in their own shit. The Viking swaggered by, giving me a shit-eating, superior grin, as if he hadn’t been put down by Paladin just as hard as I had. And Silt…?
“Didn’t know a skinny guy like you had so much blood in him,” she told me in passing, her voice gruff. “Not sure they’re ever getting those stains out.”
She was gone before I could reply.
Last to leave—because of course he would be last—was Matthew Strich, not a bru
ise on him or a hair out of place to suggest that he’d fought both the Viking and me that morning. Like the other first-years, he went pale at the sight of me, but when I stepped in his path, those baby blues hardened. In the time it took me to take a step, he’d gone from post-meditation calm to fuck-you-up readiness.
Stalwarts… sometimes, I think they’re even crazier than Crows.
“Paladin.” It still wasn’t his name, not with the real Paladin still running around, but for at least one day, I figured I owed him that much respect.
“Crow.” His eyes stayed wary. “If this is about our match…”
“It is.” I felt the snarl forming on my face, but forced the words out anyway. “I wanted to thank you.”
For just a moment, his jaw stayed clenched. Then it dropped open. “Thank me? For what?!? Breaking every bone in your body?”
“For stopping when you did.” I hated saying that. Hated admitting it, even to myself. “The Healers say if you hadn’t, I would’ve died. Probably. I guess.” He didn’t say anything, and I watched his mouth swing shut again, his jaw clenching and unclenching like he was trying to chew through steel. I waited a moment longer and then shrugged. “Anyway, just wanted to say thanks.”
I was five feet away, headed for the slowly shrinking river of people, when he finally spoke. “I didn’t stop the match for you.”
I looked back, stone grey eyes meeting vid star blue.
“I stopped because you wouldn’t,” he continued, forcing the words out, “because I couldn’t figure out how to make you, and because that scared the hell out of me.” Those eyes hardened again, and it was like the moment of vulnerability had never happened. “Next time will be different.”
“Looking forward to it,” I lied.
“I guess we’ll see.” He brushed past me and was gone.
Looked like that whole arch-nemesis thing was still on after all.
Fuck.
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